Death Or Freedom
by old-fashioned villain
Summary: This work was thoroughly inspired by The Empty Hearse and the wonderful Jimlock/Sheriarty feels. Here's an attempt to make their scene less OOC while retaining its adorable, fluffy, giggly goodness. This work could /potentially/ expand to include several episodes of Sherlock's life after his "death". I hope you enjoy, bask in the feels, and leave some feedback.
1. Chapter 1

6:00:00

"Staying alive. It's just…staying. SO BORING, isn't it?" Jim's voice bounced off the rooftops as he leaped to his feet. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction," he circled Sherlock like a predator he was, always alert, always ready to pounce. "And I don't even have you! You're ordinary, just like the rest of them…" he trailed off, exhaled - deflating like a balloon, allowing all air to escape his lungs, pausing – then picked up his pace again. Sherlock stood perfectly still with only his eyes tracing the criminal's every step, every tilt of the head and every twitch of the eye, every drop of sweat and every careless word. Moriarty reached the ledge in three long strides and looked down. Sherlock could practically feel as the wheels of his mind were set in motion.

"Ordinary," the smaller man hummed. "Ordinary. Ordinary!" Then after skipping a beat, he turned back and stared at the detective. "But you're not hopeless – not yet. You can still be free. Look at them," he made a sweeping gesture in the general direction of the street. "They're so normal, so plain, so simple. They will suck your life out of you, slowly…like they did to me. You think John will chase game with you forever?" He let out a high-pitched giggle. "No, no. John will find himself a wife and make a few children because he is everything you can never be – _or-di-na-ry_!" The smaller man almost danced across the roof to the beat only his ears could hear. "I'm giving you a choice, Sherlock," he whispered as he approached. "You can jump. You can save them all, your _friends_…die for a noble cause. Or perhaps you thought of a way off this roof?" He stood on his tiptoes and looked into Sherlock's cold, unblinking eyes. "SO YOU HAVE! How wonderful! Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sher_lock. ALL YOUR ORDINARY FRIENDS WILL DIE. So kill yourself," Moriarty lowered his voice to a soft murmur and leaned in to Sherlock's ear. "Or not."

When Sherlock lifted one eyebrow slightly – a small contraction of muscle that would pass most eyes but never Moriarty's – Jim giggled again. "Yes, yes. You can jump or you can come with me," he danced away again as the excitement began to bubble in his voice, filling his very form, almost lifting it off the ground and allowing him to glide across the rough stone and to the ledge again. "Forget them. Leave them. Let them believe what they will. Allow the great Sherlock Holmes to meet his miserable end on the roof of St. Bart's. Perhaps they will figure it out one day. Perhaps they'll give you posthumous recognition. Make them believe. Come away with me. Be free. Start over. You _are_ me, Sherlock, and I am you. So screw them! God, how I'd wished for a worthy opponent. And here you are – a little bit of work here and there," he teased, then as though remembering something, he stopped mid-sentence and inhaled sharply rubbing his temples. "So," he concluded, his voice dangerously low, "which will it be – death or freedom?"

6:15:00

Sherlock didn't think Moriarty actually expected him to consider his options. He could see the utter crushing disappointment in the criminal's eyes as he delivered his fiery speech. He didn't think Sherlock could do it – forget them, leave them, abandon them, and embrace what he truly was. And that fact alone drove the detective to actually weigh his options. He knew Moriarty was right – there was no place for him in the ordinary world of John, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson – not for very long, anyway. Sooner or later they will grow tired of chasing, of running, of Sherlock – they will want to settle down and forget because that's what normal people _do_, isn't it? Settle down and forget. Sherlock did not want to forget. He did not want to hang up his coat and spend his afternoons discussing the weather with John. He needed the adrenaline like his friend needed oxygen – he couldn't breathe without it. "Jump," Jim said. Little did he know that should Sherlock jump, he would not smash his brains on the pavement, that one little word will send Mycroft's men and his own running from all directions. It had all been planned – Moriarty was wrong, Sherlock wasn't by any means ordinary, and he was one step ahead. So Sherlock could jump and survive – lie to John and do Mycroft's dirty work for him, dismantle Moriarty's elaborate web and return a hero. But what would he return to? A cup of tea and a rousing discussion of the latest programme on the telly? But if he didn't – Sherlock stopped himself and blinked. Jim was watching with his head inclined slightly to the left, biting his lip in anticipation, his hand clutching the gun in his pocket.

If he didn't – if Sherlock chose Moriarty's freedom, the freedom to walk away and start over in a partnership with the only man other than Mycroft who understood his burden and his genius. After all, if he were dead, John would move on – slowly and painfully, he would move on and begin his life anew, so why couldn't Sherlock do the same? Let them all think him dead. Let their worries, their _feelings _quietly slip away. If only Sherlock could let go of those tiny bits of him that were _human_, if he could stock them away in a far corner of his mind palace…but if he did go, if he did choose freedom, how would he possibly pull it off?

6:17:00

"I used a double to scare the girl as you've undoubtedly discovered," Moriarty spoke softly as though reading the detective's mind. "He has recently passed away," he allowed a sly smile to touch his lips, "and I believe his body is safely stored with one Molly Hooper. She knows about your fake suicide plans, does she not?" Sherlock registered a sharp intake of breath – his own – how could he know?

"Oh, please, don't be so…dramatic, Sherlock-darling," Moriarty mused. "I don't care how and why you and your big brother decided to fool me…it doesn't matter," he sighed and Sherlock noticed a trace of – sadness? – in the smaller man's voice. "I will not interfere, I promise you. I've got a bullet of my own, right here," he patted his left pocket, "so that I may be _free_ either way."

Sherlock rushed to process the new flow of information – he knew, he had know all along that Sherlock was planning to step off this roof alive and yet he made no plans to stop him. Or had he? And then it hit him.

"You never wanted me ruined," Sherlock whispered. "You never wanted me dead. You just wanted me for _yourself_. This whole thing – it's to get me to come with you, isn't it? Because I'm your only chance to-"

"Stay alive," Jim finished for him. Their eyes met for the second time that morning and Sherlock discovered a new intensity of Moriarty's murky pools of brown – he had underestimated the man, he had never thought he would go this far just to feel alive again. Sherlock struggled to compose himself as the realization that he had just found the right answer struck a chord in his mind. Jim Moriarty would do _anything_ to feel _alive_ again…and so would Sherlock Holmes.

6:20:00

"We're WASTING TIME," Jim sang out glaring at his phone. "Just do it, Sherlock. Jump, for God's sake. Get it over with. The noble Sherlock Holmes – the greatest consulting detective, and the only one at that, come to meet his end." He walked over slowly to the taller man and grasped his hand in his. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," he breathed out as he tightened his grasp and reached for the gun with his free hand. Sherlock had about three seconds now before Jim Moriarty put the gun in his mouth, pulled the trigger, and let his brains spill out on the ground.

6:20:02

"How much time do we have?" Sherlock spoke calmly as Jim clicked off the safety on the gun. He felt the smaller man's entire body shudder as he slowly raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "The body of my double, how much time do we have to retrieve it before your men murder all of my friends?" Jim gaped at Sherlock in silence as the gun dropped to the ground with a soft thud. "The one and only consulting criminal and the infamous Sherlock Holmes commit a double suicide – brilliant! We'll need another body, I'm sure Molly could find something suitable." Jim stood completely bewildered as Sherlock pondered the intricacies of his newly formed plan. "Jim, how much time?" he demanded again as the criminal finally came to with a lazy grin forming on his face. "Nine minutes," he responded. He pulled out his cell phone with a shaking hand and punched in a few words. "They won't shoot until then." Sherlock nodded and grabbing the smaller man's arm dragged him down the stairs into the hospital.

6:22:00

"Watch the door and for God's sake, don't let anyone see you!" Sherlock instructed as they approached the lab. He paused in the doorway as he felt Jim's hard stare at the back of his neck. "I've gone too far – the game is too good to give it up now," he reassured him and stepped inside closing the door carefully behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the room, he spied Molly in the corner, gaping at him. Before she could blurt out something stupid or incredibly insightful that would lead Sherlock to change his mind, he spoke softly.

"Molly, I need two bodies. One is a man who looks quite similar to me. Ah, good, you've already seen him," Sherlock remarked as he observed a mix of horror and recognition on the woman's face. "And another one is a man, of small stature…" he trailed off unsure how to describe a body he needed without giving away his plans.

"To look like Jim," Molly finished for him. "They're downstairs. You'll know them when you see them. Don't worry," she whispered squeezing Sherlock's palm now, "Moriarty is dead. It's not him you're saving, _it's Jim_." Sherlock could only nod dryly afraid that he might betray his confusion – it seemed he had underestimated a great many people in the past several hours – and mumble a thank you. All too aware of the softness of Molly's hand, Sherlock freed himself from her gentle grasp and made for the door.

"Sherlock," she called out behind him. "I just wanted you know that you were right." Sherlock paused without turning around – if he turned back now, he would never find his way. "You were right about Jim – that night when you first met him? Every disguise _is_ a self-portrait." Sherlock swallowed and walked out of the lab leaving Molly Hooper behind.

6:28:55

It took the two of them to drag the bodies back to the roof and they made sufficient noise to wake all of London as Jim began to giggle hysterically halfway up the last flight of stairs. As much as Sherlock wished him to shut up, the man's excited mood mirrored his own – the anticipation of what he was about to do, the anticipation of being free made the tall man feel light-headed. Now as they leaned against the brick wall, their elbows touching, Sherlock could barely contain a giggle himself. The great Sherlock Holmes stood on the ledge of the roof of St. Bart's hospital as he spoke his final words and the consulting criminal Jim Moriarty lay in the corner in a pool of his own blood – dead by his own hand with a bullet in his brain. As Sherlock clenched the rope that separated the man whose name he didn't know from the short fall to the pavement below, he felt a rush of adrenaline in his blood and he knew he made the right decision.

"This is what people do, isn't it, leave a note," he whispered into the speaker soaking in John's frantic pleas on the other end as Jim let out yet another loud giggle at his side. "SHH!" Sherlock exclaimed with a smile on his lips, then into the speaker, with a voice full of emotion, he declared his final "Goodbye, John," as he let go of the rope in his hand and watched the body of his double plummet to the ground as John's screams echoed through the street.

Jim was basically bouncing with excitement. It was done – Sherlock Holmes was dead and Sherlock was free. As the former consulting detective let the phone drop to the ground, he let out an exhilarated chuckle to match Jim's laugh of relief. They laughed and laughed for several seconds suddenly aware that they held the world in their hands as they stalked invisible through its narrow streets. Sherlock looked over at the face of the man who will now forever march alongside him in the world of endless possibility and remembered Molly Hooper's last words. "You were right about Jim." He couldn't say if he had known all along or if he had just discovered the simple, striking truth. After all, human emotions were his weakness – he could not perceive or penetrate them with his mind, and what seemed obvious to the ordinary people, to him was easy to overlook. Emotions were fickle, ever-changing – they could not be subjected to logic and reason. And in that moment, Sherlock saw in Jim what he had always lacked – he saw pure emotion shining on his face as all masks dropped. Emotions could not be subjected to logic and reason and so Sherlock did not try. He simply leaned in closer to the other man's face, and as their eyes met and exchanged an unspoken mutual understanding, so did Jim. Based on the criminal's violent, twisted nature, Sherlock predicted several possible outcomes – physical, raw, anger, rage, lust, desire – but what he received instead was simply soft and fleeting, a whisper of Jim's lips on his own just as the smaller man's hand found its way into Sherlock curls and rested – neither pulled nor grabbed – but rested peacefully, gently stroking the side of his face. Sherlock had expected John's screams and pleas to do the trick, but it was Jim's kiss that erased all traces of his selfish desire for freedom and replaced it with a need to do everything in his power to protect all the people he loved. If you jump, Moriarty said, you will save all the people you care about. But Moriarty was wrong – if he jumped, Sherlock could protect John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, but who would protect Jim? In the end, it wasn't his freedom Sherlock chose, it was Jim's – Jim's freedom and his soft lips.


	2. Chapter 2

6:42:00

They sat in silence for a while listening to the faint sounds drifting from the street below. Sherlock could discern John's voice pleading to let him through, please, the man on the ground was his friend…._ was_… His phone began buzzing in his hand – Mycroft – and Sherlock grinned with satisfaction noticing it took his brother full 13 minutes to figure out something wasn't quite right.

What the bloody hell is going on? – M

Are you out of your mind? – M

Jim glanced over at the phone in Sherlock's hand and gave a soft chuckle. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably – he was still unsure what to make of his and Jim's, ahem, physical contact but he thought it best to put off the thorough analysis of their newly formed relationship for later.

"So," Jim spoke. "Is now the time that you inform me of your decision to carry out your earlier plans to assist your brother in dismantling my criminal network? Or does that come after you confirm my approximate time of death?" Sherlock could feel a flush creep up his face. He had hoped Moriarty was too busy executing his exciting plan of escape to notice the lie Sherlock had tried to feed him earlier. He never expected to simply walk away from his life – he had considered it briefly, yes, and even believed that he would do it for the few seconds that Jim's lips touched his own – but he couldn't abandon John and trust Mycroft to handle the situation without any loss of life. Mycroft did not care if John Watson died, only Sherlock did, and so it was up to Sherlock to ensure that no harm befell his friends before he made his departure into Jim's grand new world. The feelings he was experiencing now were precisely the reason why Sherlock hated emotions and attachments – they clouded his judgment and when they passed, they left an unpleasant weight in his gut. Sherlock Holmes felt guilty – for abandoning his friends for his own selfish desire for freedom. After all, how could he ever be free? People would always hate him, distrust him, and misunderstand him. Sherlock almost stood up and walked away then, but he felt Jim's hand cover his own – lightly, making no move to prevent his escape, but simply seeking to reassure.

"When did you-" Sherlock inhaled. _You are me and I am you_ – of course, he had known all along. After a brief pause, he rephrased the question, "Why did you let me do it? If you knew I would go on to assist my brother? If you knew I would not go away with you? Why did you go along? Why not pull the trigger?" Sherlock stopped himself realizing what he just said. Jim's life was precisely the reason why he had agreed to the criminal's plan in the first place – he could not afford to give up his only worthy opponent, the only person who _understood_ – whatever it was he felt for him, Sherlock could not let him go like that.

Moriarty? – M

"Ah, there it is now," Jim gave Sherlock a sad smile and for a brief moment, the detective felt a pang of terror in his chest as he glanced over at the gun lying near the dead body on the roof – if Jim bolted for it now, Sherlock would never reach him in time to stop him from executing his own death sentence. Instead, Jim reached for the phone – Sherlock did not even try to protest – and punched in a single word.

Dead. – S

"Come, now, honey, I didn't expect you to just let your friends die – those ordinary people have spoiled you far too much for that. Sentiment," Jim shook his head in disapproval. "Go on, then," he waved his hand at the door leading to the stairs. "Run along. Tell your brother of my unexpected demise. Chase my men around the globe for a while. Clear your conscience. I'm dead; I've got all the time in the world. Go fix my mess and then come find me."

So easy? Sherlock did not anticipate it being that easy. There was always a twist with Moriarty - he stared at the smaller man, looking for hints of anger, trying to poke through his defenses and find out what he was plotting, yet he found only sadness. Jim looked empty – deflated in a way, as if the weight of the world had grown too heavy on him, but the desperation that almost drove him to suicide was gone from his dark drown eyes. "You planned an elaborate scheme that would ruin me, summoned me on a roof from which I were to jump, threatened to shoot your brains out, and now you're just letting me _go_?" Sherlock repeated incredulous.

"Oh, darling, now you're sounding like _them_," Jim pouted. "It's the only way to keep you, don't you see? If you leave now, you will always yearn to return. And besides, I'm now officially dead, invisible, off record, and you want me to give up that freedom to restrain you? Or do you expect me to overpower you with my bare hands?" He eyes Sherlock up and down and chuckled.

"It'll only take a few months, I suspect," Sherlock replied in a small voice – for God's sake, was he trying to _justify_ his actions to Jim? "And then we can…" he trailed off, unsure what exactly he and Jim would do now that they could. Sherlock found himself fearing the consequences of the kiss – how could they enjoy the partnership of the mind now that they'd unlocked the wishes of the heart?

"Feels remarkable, doesn't it?" Jim whispered staring off into distance. "Freedom?" Sherlock nodded, too confused to muster a response, and only then realized that the whole time Jim's hand hadn't left his own, and somehow it felt natural for it to be there. The detective wasn't accustomed to another's touch – not like that. Intimacy felt foreign and illogical, much like emotions did.

After several minutes of comfortable silence, the warmth of Jim's body pressed to his disappeared as he rose to his feet extending a hand down to Sherlock. "Your brother impatiently awaits," he declared cheerfully. "I'll walk you down."

7:00:00

"Here," Sherlock shrugged his coat off his shoulders and handed it to Jim. "Not much of a disguise, really, but I'm far too recognizable wearing it."

"And you just can't resist the urge to pull the collar up," Jim teased as Sherlock's warmth and smell enveloped his body, the coat almost brushing the ground. Sherlock gave him the smallest of smiles, took off his scarf, re-wrapped it to hide parts of his chin and mouth – causing a fit of giggles from Jim – and nodded.

It was time to go their separate ways, but Sherlock stood searching Jim's eyes hesitantly. Their plan had been so good – too good – and Sherlock knew deep down inside it could never have gone as smoothly as he had fantasized up on the roof. He could not abandon his life like that and Jim knew it, too. They both liked to imagine that a few months with Mycroft would be sufficient – but Moriarty's web had spread too far, grown too intricate – and Sherlock realized they were parting ways for quite a long time. "Well then," he cleared his throat. "I best be on my way," then as a second thought, he spoke in a quiet whisper, "I'll catch you later."

And just like that, Sherlock was off to meet his brother's rage – _for God's sake, Sherlock, what were you thinking, we had a plan and that body was not a part of it, what if someone had seen it up close, what if John had seen it, you were supposed to keep me updated_ – leaving Jim behind to figure out his new life as a small, invisible man lacking all of Moriarty's influence, connections, and manpower.

But while Jim may have lacked Moriarty's influence, connections, and manpower, he retained his wild unpredictability as he promptly demonstrated to Sherlock when he called out after him softly, covered the distance between them in lightning-quick strides, pulled Sherlock down by the lapels of his jacket, ripped off the scarf to reveal the taller man's mouth, buried his fingers in the mess of his curls, and planted a heated kiss on his lips. "I hope you do," his hoarse whisper brushed against Sherlock's cheek as he turned on his heels and hurried off almost breaking into a run in fear that if he stopped now, he would never be able to walk away again.

Sherlock stood befuddled for several seconds. They never talked about these…_feelings_ that they'd discovered for each other up on the roof, yet Jim easily displayed them – first with a touch of his hand, and now with his mouth eagerly finding Sherlock's – and felt no need to discuss them. It unnerved Sherlock that Jim had not objected to his plan to assist Mycroft – in dismantling _Moriarty's_ network – had not objected at all, and afterwards granted him the most surprising and delightful kiss for his troubles. The transformation from a bloodthirsty psychopath to a gentle, collected – here Sherlock searched for the right word to describe the man… partner, yes, _partner_ – was remarkable. The detective half-expected for bullets to rain down on him from all the windows above at the whim of the capricious Jim Moriarty, yet all he could hear were Jim's receding footsteps and the scream of the sirens in the distance. Perhaps, Sherlock _was _all Jim had wanted after all. He would find him, of course he would, because all he had done in the last hour had been done for that purpose alone – when he finished what he started, when he ensured that his friends were safe, when he dismantled the several years of work of the most brilliant man in the world apart from Sherlock himself, the detective would find Jim and they would finally be free to do what they will. With a smile on his lips, Sherlock thought of exactly _what _they would do – they would stay alive, _together_.


End file.
